


Salt is Good for Wounds

by Vinsachi



Category: Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri (2017)
Genre: M/M, Psychology, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 09:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17864513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vinsachi/pseuds/Vinsachi
Summary: Am I a fucking doctor?





	Salt is Good for Wounds

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Соль, полезная для ран](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/458390) by Рагдай (Ragdai). 



This Dixon is a hell of a curse. Major pain, a real misfit. Red would have left this godforsaken town long time ago. Yeah, he would definitely go to see something really worth attention. Red would have found a girlfriend. Well damn he would, ain’t it a walkover for him? And yet he’s here, in Ebbing. And his only romance is an office affair, and everything’s goes round and round in circles, at the stage of exchanging stealthy glances, smiles, funny courtesies, and full satisfaction with each other. Pamela is amazing and pretty but, as everyone else in this town, she’s convinced of him being gay; that’s why she might be treating him with all her care, kindness, and affection so recklessly and so selflessly.

And he is glad to accept, and glad to respond, and to share love light-heartedly with her and all the others, all this town in reply, and why in the world would he leave at all? Well, all the youngsters dream of New York or, at least, St. Louis, but the heart tells that he would never find a place closer and warmer than Ebbing. And after all, the business inherited by Red muddles along, but still he’s the only one responsible for it, and he can be sure about tomorrow. He can be sure that tomorrow, as well as today, as yesterday, tired of reading and lazing away, he’ll leave the table, bury his hands in pockets, make a few bored steps and look out of the window. He’ll look at the building across the street.

The ground floor side window is fitted with luffer boards, but it happens that they’re up. And then, he sees the table cluttered up with the things that might come in hand to a policeman, mixed up with the stuff that amuses an aggressive feckless teen. Sometimes, he can see a muddle-headed owner of this table. Sometimes, his head rests on an open comic book. And does this luck make his heart shrink — lightly, easily, but still? Does that slight chill run down his belly? Not likely.

This Dixon is a true misfit. Sometimes, it’s so entertaining to look at him from the office window: there he is, leaving the police station, making his way somewhere. His pace is screamingly funny, especially when he’s business-like and all that. Lumbering like an awkward duck, hobbling, flailing his arms, a heavy policeman’s belt looking like a ballet skirt he’s afraid to scrape with his elbows. While looking at him from the window, it’s so easy to neglect that this gawky-looking swabber is armed and dangerous, even more – he’s inadequate and, most probably, angry. It’s better to keep out of his sight. Better not to meet him at all.

But Red never keeps out and meets him diligently, and if he knows about a chance to see Dixon here or there, then without fail – no, maybe – yes, with the probability of around twenty per cent – he’ll get to this place. Will be repeating to himself, like a mantra, that one can’t escape himself, that heart is lawless, will be repining at his destiny and yet thank this very destiny with annoyance and obedience when he feels a heavy glassy stare gimleting him. ‘This bonehead is staring again!’ - that’s what he gonna say to himself, and bang! – the evening is complete.

Dixon keeps gawking, sure he does. He’s just incapable of simply going by Red Wilby. If he happens to see him on the opposite side of the street, it might end with not the most affable gesture or a pro bully’s haughty nod. If they bump into each other in a shop, at post, wherever (unfortunately (or fortunately) there aren’t so many places where they have a chance to stumble upon each other), then Dixon would brush against him, push him accidentally on purpose, or make another unfunny gay joke. And there’s a little chance for Red to win this squabble – like it or not, no matter how many books he’s read, he’s still young, and he wouldn’t learn how to stick up for himself, although Dixon considers him to be a clever clogs. Red is capable to come up with a smart response after the fact, but with Dixon at his side, anxiety makes his mind racing. And what a surprising kind of fear it is – it rolls over his chest with cold waves, knocks the wind out of him, squeezes his throat, makes his fingers tremble, his ears, blush.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), Dixon never notices that for the reason of being too drunk or too consumed with cutting his tattered feathers, or just can’t see beyond the end of his nose due to his own dullness. How miserable he is, a trivial, rude, swell-headed and awkward loser, sharing the place with his mom and screwed-up to the eyeballs and beyond… And does some one-time meeting move anything deep within Red’s chest? Well, if it does, then, whatever was moved there, it simply returns to its proper place, after dropping off at a sense of threat. But does he feel any wish to stare after Dixon? Hasn’t Red lost his marbles? He definitely hasn’t.

Well, if he ever wishes to look back at Dixon, then with vexation only. And if he ever wants to smile, that smile is bitter and despising, just for the reason that everything’s sure as eggs are eggs: Dixon is a latent homosexual, that’s it. This is the root of the most problems he has. This ain’t a big secret: everybody chaffs at him, well, certainly, behind his back, by stealth, but that’s as sure as a gun. His wish to have swag at all accounts comes from the fear of being laughed at. That swollen aggressiveness serves Dixon to conceal his inner sensitivity, that vulnerability of his heart, and he uses all these life failures to cover one enormous failure in accepting himself. He’s unable of going against his own nature, so he pretends that he doesn’t give a shit about himself. Sure, it’s not him who should be blamed here but an environment that raised him and that wouldn’t let him go. Sure, everything can be excused, it’s even possible to assume that in inward soul, under a taint of dirt, boredom and pervasive pointless existence, some honest, some kind person is hiding, and this person would never let Dixon to become a criminal, a rapist, or a murderer – all the groundwork is laid for that…

But the field of assumptions is dark and unstudied, and Red is still too young and green to judge others. It’s a lot easier to stare after Dixon with a dismissive grin, and to put an imaginary palm on a racing heart for the umpteenth time, to tell it that this fast beat, this hurry are all for naught: there’s nothing about this Dixon that would be worth of battering the ribcage bars. Nothing. All is ridiculously evident, plain as a pikestaff: Dixon pants for Red. It’s no way for Dixon to stay calm, no way to abstain from expressing his ludicrous manliness and independence. Dixon is ticked off, he doesn’t have the stomach for being a goddamn faggot, while Red looks like the Missouri’s prize homo catch, although he ain’t the one (well, who gonna believe).

Dixon is drawn to Red like a pin to a magnet, for Red is the only one and the most obvious gay within his sight; moreover, Red meets the most fanciful gay standards by being defiantly well-groomed, brave and charmingly bitchy. Dixon wants to fuck Red for certain, yet he’s afraid to face this fact. What a wretch. He might have really gotten into a scrape, poor thing; yes, sure, Red is the one who’s driving Dixon’s sleep away. Yet, no. The things are far more down-to-earth. To booze with beer to the grim, to stuff his belly with all that salty and spicy shit, to lie on the sofa until his brain melts, experiencing all that burden of the earth atmosphere; to do all this in order to get exhausted, and, trying not to make any excess sound, despising himself and getting almost zero pleasure for that reason, to jerk off late at night, and then, without wiping his hands or tears, fall dead asleep. What a miserable piece of life it is.

And yet, is Red’s life really better? Well, certainly, he doesn’t get drunk and looks after himself, and chooses evening jogging to get exhausted. In his own postcard-like cozy and neat flat, he’s free to make any noise he wants, and he feels no shame. But the result is the same. Dixon is the one who steals his night rest. It’s far too easy to get rid of that stupid insomnia. And certainly, Red would wash his hands thoroughly and would shed no tears but still, the outcome ain’t different. Maybe that is Red’s soft spot? Definitely not.

The most curious meetings take place in the bar where Red is used to come to in the evenings, giving Dixon a reason to booze there regularly. And is this look, full of hidden pain, jealousy, and unspeakable grief is what Red’s looking for? There’s only one man able to look at him like that. Red is willing to believe that there is only one gay in this nice little town. At least, there’s only one gay who would hit this very bar. And there’s no way for Red to be together with that one gay. More truly, there’s no way for Dixon until he stays an asshole like this.

So why Red keeps coming here? For whose sake he arrays himself and is so diligent in serving his own cold maple handsomeness? For whose sake he takes care of his skin, styles his hair, files his nails, as if he really was some kind of a pretty homo? He could answer, that’s for himself, but the answer is bullshit. That’s for being liked. Everything about him is created for that. It’s his incurably sweet temper, love to all fellow-beings, soft heart, and innocent youth. It’s his talent to forgiveness and ultimate understanding, for gays are as tolerant to other people’s demerits as angels. And the same vulnerable. That’s for being liked – his vulnerability, inability to stand for himself, timidity, and shyness. Oh yes, he would be terribly shy and tender if he only happened to fall in love…

He has everything to fall in love. And to be loved, he has a pretty face, those red locks forming adorable curls, and that pale golden sand generously bestrewn his entire body. To be desired, he is so tall, slender, and sinuous (and gracious, for certain, sexy, aint he? Ain’t he? That needhead Dixon drools over him, as sure as death), and charming. The truth is that Red could have changed this godforsaken place long ago for New York or, at least, St. Loius, and could have picked up some amazing guy, somebody kind, caring, and vulnerable. Well for sure he would pick him up, is that a hard task for him? Gays are as vulnerable as angels, and two vulnerable creatures always find it easier to share the existence that to exist separately.

Although, Red is here, in Ebbing. And his one and only lovesickness is absolutely hopeless, meaningless and sad. A lucky one Red is, to have found such a kind and caring man, his Mr. Right.

Mr. Right is sitting at the bar counter and gimleting Red with a hateful gaze while slowly bringing himself up to the mark. And only when Dixon is scarcely able to stand, when his mind stops working and preventing him of making a wrong move, he’s approaching. Reeking with beer, cigarettes, and all that cheap simple life of his. He’s trying to show his interest, more truly, trying to justify it to himself, that’s why he spouts inarticulate insults and jokes where there’s not a hint of conformity between a plot and an outcome. What a scumbag this Dixon is, he’s just pathetic, and he would be just disgusting but…

He’s tottering, and that gives him an absolute freedom to fall on Red, to huddle him, even to make a dead-set on him and to get handsy — and, unfortunately (or fortunately), Dixon is too drunk to make these actions intentional. And still, these are his hands. Still, that’s him. Still, Red is losing his breath, he’s taking fright, he’s biting his lips, trying to look unapproachable, to avoid contact gracefully, to look down, but he feels that he’s falling. Feels his fingers trembling, his fine ears’ ends blushing, and a promise is spreading over the bottom of his belly like molten gold — the back-word of pleasure and the unfeasible menace of violence.

What an irony that nature disposed in precisely this way. Dixon smells of a beast. But what a magnificent beast it is… All men are animals, and Red reasonably believes that he is also destined to become one of a pack. But so far, he’s the one who finds delight in surrendering to beasts, more truly, the one fully obsessed with an unfeasible and unrewarding idea of taming them (maybe he’s really a homo, hell knows). Red smells with honey and milk, he is young and innocent, he is bestrewn with sunny sand, and his soft heart is created for tenderness and delight, and his bright mind is created for the sake of being lost. And he should thank his stars or damned genes, or impressions taken up in deep unhappy childhood that forms the personality afterwards; in a word, how stupid it was for him to get trapped like that— to get stuck in Dixon, like Dixon stuck in his old mom’s house.

And it is this beast who inculcated in Red the happiness of being desired, together with the sheer quiver. Ain’t Red in love? Definitely not. But he is madly fond of that insuperable power of Dixon, that beastly sadness and this dull stubbornness, and inability to overcome himself, multiplied by inability to go against his own nature. It’s unlikely that Dixon’s dim-witted head is ever visited by thoughts why he’s attracted to Red, and if it occurs, then Dixon must definitely drive them away, swearing and spitting. One can’t escape himself, and heart is lawless. Mind is getting obscured with alcohol, and animal instincts take the lead. And the fact that Dixon raises and ruffles and cuts his tattered feathers like a woodgrouse in the mating place, so dumb, so blind and deaf in his gallant self-oblivion, is the same instinct as well.

Once Red stumbled upon one doubtful book about fluids, substances dissolved in the air, able to impact the psyche. That it is this very thing they call love at first sight. That during the t call, fluids are subconsciously eliminated by a creature in love, or, sidestepping the conscience, its body that knows better what and who is exactly required for that creature to propagate. The fluid flux is created and oriented at some specific being, and there’s a miserable chance that this specific being will be able to resist such a call and to reply with something else except willingness. Neither beauty, nor power, nor positive features mean anything here. This ain’t even about love, this is only about a blown gasket, a painful wish to go to the end of the world for the promise of one kiss, and to marry a girl you know almost nothing about, just in order to get her into bed. You are just helpless in resisting someone else’s vibe that entangles you… And this must be exactly the way this stupid Dixon bewitched him, Red. Voluntarily or not, he enchanted, he entangled him, and made him believe a thing the entire town has been sure about long ago.

For the hundredth, for the millionth time Red rails against his destiny. It was so short-sighted to dispose like that and gave so much to this ought Dixon, yet even gave him much less. To be honest, Dixon can be even called handsome – his traits can be easily called aristocratic. If someone would just wipe off that stupid expression from this doubtlessly virile face that would definitely fit a good policeman and a wistful detective, if someone would make him frown, would apply a couple of noble scars on the cheekbone, this face would be priceless.

If Dixon was just a couple inches taller. If he lost some weight, powered up and stopped boozing, if he didn’t read comic books at his workplace, didn’t play toys, didn’t dance with those headphones and didn’t get the jitters like a chick. If he guarded the streets like a predator guards his possessions, even these streets, peaceful and quiet as they are, but if he patrolled them, served and defended law and order, and didn’t walk with that awkward duck-like pace but step confidently, let even heavily, but like a policeman. Then, Red would have fallen out of his window looking for Dixon. Red would fall in love truly and madly and would never dream of any kind and caring guys in New York or St. Louis. Red would fall in love insanely and, if Dixon continued courting him, even in such an awkward manner, then let it be so – Red would give up and become a faggot. He ain’t too far from that, anyway.

Nature gave Dixon the happiness to be a predator but yet it gave him no freedom. However, a predator, even imprisoned in a cage in some lousy zoo, even brought up in captivity in all degradation-favoring conditions, even overfed, even broken down, even deprived of the remains of his wit and artfulness, let ever-drunk and drowsy, is a predator nonetheless. His will is still governed by old powers of nature, and he smells of an animal. And his coat is still silky and splendid, his precious fleece is glossy, his paws are heavy, his claws are deadly, his tail is striped, that snarl born deep within the mighty hot chest — all this can’t be denied. Even though this animal is scruffy and lead-footed, even though it forgot, more truly, has never known for sure what kind if being it really is – it is still formidable. By any measure, predators look beautiful when they are sated and obedient to destiny…

And finally, Red is even fond of looking down at Dixon. And he’s fond of his stupid pace, and his heart clenches to see this stupid head resting upon the opened comic book. There lay the rub. Dixon is so good even this way. Even being an asshole like that, he outdoes all those New York, and, moreover, those St. Louis guys. Always did. Even back then, when Red was a chap and, when he questioned his orientation for the first time, started looking at men, and liked Dixon the most. Although even then, Dixon has already turned into a laughingstock. But one can’t escape himself, but heart is lawless… Lawless it is, but Red has never been enchanted by him. Red has never built any castles in the clouds, even in the most sleepless nights, he has never surrendered to delusions, has never assigned any traits to Dixon that he would never have, and has never dreamt of the impossible. Maybe just a little bit. And yet just for a reason that one should be kind and tolerant to another man’s demerits, one should forgive, forgive and shouldn’t deny a possibility that the thick layer of dirt and rudeness conceals something bright.

Forgive, forgive with his soft heart. Of course, Red forgave him. Forgave, although before Dixon was delivered to the ward, Red was angry, regretting for not have sued this schizo, as Pamela insisted. Of course, it was pleasant to imagine that Dixon would be taken to a slammer and he would finally come out of the fucking closet, but yet, Red wasn’t hundred-per-cent angry. After all, his heart was too soft, and he understood that, despite the fact of becoming a victim of circumstances, he still bears some partial responsibility for what have happened. However, he was absolutely sure that the time has come to send this crazy town to hell…

But spite and offense melted like first snow when Dixon said that ‘sorry’, and to behave decently for the first time in his life. Holy Christ, Red loves him, loves him madly, if even such a little thing is enough! Hell yes, Red really has a piece of cherry cake instead of a heart, Red is really a desperate wishy-washy homo if someone made such an awful thing to him, and he forgave, which means, he let…

It was enough to see Dixon suffering and regretting, and even faster the spite melted, even faster his breathing became smooth again, even faster than Red realized what he was doing, he already gave Dixon a chance. And now he should arm himself with patience and with another ten dozens of changes and mercies, for there’s no fucking chance that Dixon would just cease being an asshole in a crack. And still, he’s on the right track.


End file.
